


Hands.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston Fandom, hiddlestoners
Genre: Angst, Backrubs, Established Relationship, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Late at Night, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 16:31:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1751213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC loves Hiddles no matter how tough shit gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands.

“The back… It was always back injuries for me.”

It’s a bit over midnight when her phone wakes her up. She had fallen asleep on the living room couch watching a none-too-interesting sitcom that vividly reminded her of her high school days – boring and unproductive. She picks up and is greeted by his warm voice, gruff with exhaustion. He’d warned her about the overly long and dense work days and she, an actress herself, knows what the job involves, despite never having collaborated with a company of such magnitude as Marvel. It doesn’t stop her heart from breaking a bit more, though, every time he walks through the door inarticulate from sleep deprivation, beelines straight to their bed taking his clothes off on the way and literally falls, asleep on the soft mattress, knocked out cold. She would have already prepared everything needed and straddles his ass, not actually sitting on him because what would the point of it all be then, singing softly, she rubs essential oils into his skin to relieve the strain in his back muscles. She would wake him up and have him put on a sweatshirt or something, but it’s warm outside and she doesn’t have the heart to pull him back to reality unless imperiously necessary.

Their conversation is poor in content, but the way their shared tiredness elongates every syllable on their tongue, makes it seem longer and unbearable. She can tell by the inflexions of his voice ( there’s no such thing as expressivity or actual tone at this ungodly time of the night ) that he regrets calling her, waking her up, but she’s aware of the fact that he knows better than to disregard her wishes. And, after all, her caretaking has without a doubt made a difference in both the physical and mental sides.

It’s good to have somebody to come home to.

They both grunt in acknowledgement and hang up at the same time. He pulls his cardigan tighter to him, she peels off the blanket from her legs and shivers when the colder air brushes over the moist with perspiration skin as the routine ensues. She changes the bed sheets, puffs out the pillows and pulls the duvet to the side. She’s left the windows open for the most part of the day so the air in the room in pleasantly light and fresh. There are clean towels in the bathroom, should he find himself in a conscious enough state to shower, and the oil bottles are neatly placed on the night stand. There’s tea brewing in the kitchen and his favourite mug is set on the counter in case he wants tea and she should probably heat up the dinner even though it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning now and she knows he doesn’t usually eat this late, but what if today he will. What if today’s not like yesterday or the day before.

What if today’s different.

She stops suddenly, lifts her hands and studies them, immediately relaxing. They’re her hands. The hands that rub his back and his dick. The hands that he affectionately covers in kisses. The hands that however much she’s come upwards the social hierarchy still look like a peasant’s and cause irremediable hatred towards her wedding band because it draws people attention to her short, crooked fingers. But her father’s father is a peasant and so is her mother’s father and she’s bound to never forget that – to never forget that however high she gets she may never leave the ground.

So today she loves her hands because today must be different, and that feeling ponders on as he opens the door, mechanically pulls her to him and crushes her lips with his lets her go and goes to bed, not sensing the smell of the tea or of the food, the pleasantly light air in the room or the clean comforters. She straddles his ass, pours some oil into her palm and proceeds to run her fingers over his back, soothing his sore muscles, quietly listening to his soft sighs of contentment.


End file.
